Fire in the Blood
by prosewanderer
Summary: Knight-Captain Cullen is ordered to arrest Marian Hawke and take her to the Circle. Hawke does not respond favorably.
1. Chapter 1

The Knight-Captain arrives at the manor in the dark and chill of early morning and waits in the great room. She descends the stairs, and he looks everywhere but at the face softened by sleep and a halo of bed hair. Her smile slips a fraction with each step.

"What's wrong?" she asks, her eyes automatically snapping to every vital place, but she sees no blood or bruises, only the tight press of his mouth and armored hands curled into fists at his sides.

Cullen shakes his head, clears his throat. "I wish I were visiting under more pleasant circumstances."

"Come sit," she says, reaching for him, and he quickly pulls back.

"I've come to take you to the Circle, Serah Hawke." The words rush out, tumbling over one another.

Her brow furrows and she tugs her house robe more tightly around her, emphasizing the lines of her body. "What?"

"You are a known apostate and the Knight-Commander has ordered your arrest," he says, the words clipped and toneless, paced now. "Come quietly. We will be discrete."

"Cullen, talk to me," she says, reaching for him again.

He holds up an armored hand. "You must come with me at once, Serah Hawke. There is no room for discussion."

She pauses. "I need to change." She is only wearing the robe.

He hesitates, his eyes dropping. "I—" His eyes snap back to hers, his jaw tightening. "No, I'm sorry, that's not possible." He gestures to the cloak hanging at the corner of the foyer, where it has been left to dry.

She lifts her hands, obscuring her face. "Cullen," she says.

He swallows; his eyes grow wet. "Marian," he says, "I am so sorry, please believe me." He steps closer, his hands clenching rhythmically at his sides. "I would never want… I have no choice. These are my orders. Please understand." He lifts a hand to her shoulder, to draw her into his embrace.

Hawke knees him in the groin, sudden and swift, and he doubles with a grunt. He grabs for her and she darts away, but he catches the back of her robe and yanks, hard, and down she goes.

Neither acknowledges Orana's quiet gasp at the foot of the stairs.

Cullen stoops to capture her ankle. She kicks him in the face, bloodying his nose, and the jolt of impact frees the tears shining in his eyes, spotting the marble floor with errant saltwater and blood. He swallows a cry and lunges for her, grabbing her calf. She kicks him again, forcing him back on one knee, and is up in an instant. When he surges to his feet she punches him in the nose and he bites back a yelp of pain. He reflexively slaps her and her head snaps to the side. She shakes it off and head-butts him, bloodying his nose further, and he really does yelp this time.

He fumbles for her, but he's heavy and slow in full plate and her arm glides through his grasp like water. She knocks him off-balance with a leg sweep, forcing him to roll to break the fall, and then she is atop him, pinning him, her hands gripping his forearms above his gauntlets, her long limbs and strong thighs holding him firm. He'd gladly welcome such a hold under different circumstances, and a flicker of that knowledge mingles with rage burning in her dark eyes before it is lost in the flames.

"If you care about me at all, come peacefully," he says, panting, ruddy-faced, a tremor in his voice.

She stares at him. "You sodding templar," she says, breathing heavy as she looms over him, a lock of loosened hair blowing back and forth over her lips. She raises her fist.

"Marian," he says, lifting a hand to ward off the blow. Abruptly, he looks past her.

As her eyes roll to the side, a gauntleted hand presses against her back and the cold crush of a smite blooms deep in her chest, sucking the wind from her. All her vitality is drawn out in an instant; she is a husk, far overmatched by a squadron of heavy, armored templars suspicious of their Captain's delay.

Nevertheless, Hawke resorts to what weapons she has left: nails, teeth, elbows, knees. Soon her body is quilted with cuts and bruises and her face is crushed against the marble floor by a armored hand, her hair snarled and scalp aching where a handful has been yanked out, her legs pinned to prevent further kicking. Orana watches mutely, afraid and uncertain. Hawke's hands are forced behind her and tied, her feet shackled.

Cullen asks for the cloak. Orana is relieved to be given an order. She fetches it from the hook and Cullen drapes it over Hawke's shoulders. He covers her and fastens it at the neck, averting his eyes from her seething chest, and she resists the urge to head-butt him again. He pulls the hood over her face and is finally spared the burn of her gaze.

"Orana, tell Varric what you've seen," Hawke says between clenched teeth. One of the templars moves to block Orana's path, but Cullen shakes his head and she is allowed to pass. She hurries out onto the cool, dark street.


	2. Chapter 2

The prisoner is conveyed to the docks without incident. She sits silently at the front of the ferry as it chugs onward, a bruise flowering on her cheek. Ahead, the Gallows looms large and dark in the fog, tethered by heavy chains to the twin statues guarding mineral-depleted cliffs. The statues are gaunt Tevinter slaves shackled at the neck with prominent ribs and bowed backs. They hide their faces in their palms. Cullen watches the statues. He visualizes a shackle being snapped around Marian Hawke's neck, but the chain that forms in his mind's eye is slender and delicate, almost pretty, as it twists and catches the light. More like a necklace than a chain, really.

Abruptly, he turns to the approaching monolith. His broken nose throbs and stings in the salt air. The boat rocks on the choppy water, and Cullen's stomach rocks with it as he makes his way to the fore and sits near Marian. She remains firmly upright, her head high and eyes forward, her face shrouded by the hood.

"Marian," he says, as low as the wind will allow. He keeps his eyes on the Gallows.

"Templar," she says, in kind.

"I know you're upset, but please believe me, I wish—"

"Do you think I'll look pretty in Circle robes?" she asks.

The ferry bucks, splashing salt water in Cullen's face, and he flinches. He grabs the bench to steady himself. "I had my orders, Marian."

"Will you pick out a set just for me? One that matches my eyes?"

Cullen's grip tightens on the bench. "It was only a matter of time before you attracted her notice. I warned you about flouting your status and associating with the wrong people."

"My status? You mean as an entrepreneur and scion of the Amell family? Or as a friend of the Order?" The word "friend" has a harsh edge.

"Your status as a known apostate."

She laughs. "So this is my fault."

"I modified my reports to protect you and that was no small thing, it was a serious violation of protocol and I risked disciplinary action for it. I always put in a good word for you. But when she personally ordered me to arrest you I had no choice. I had no room to maneuver."

"You've done me so many favors," she says, after a moment. "Would you grant one more?"

"Yes," he says quickly, turning to face her for the first time. "If prudent, yes, name it, I will do it gladly."

"Tell Anders he was right about you."

This is not the woman he shared so many conversations with under the flutter of the Order's banner. This is not the woman he won laughter from as they sheltered from the rain. A stranger sits beside him, rough-hewn from the same coarse rock as Kirkwall's cliffs, stoic as granite.

Marian smiles humorlessly at his expression. "I don't have to be nice to you anymore, Cullen," she says, and the words slice effortlessly through his armor.

"I told you I had no choice," he says. "You have no idea how hard-"

"Oh, I have an idea. It must still be very hard," she says, her voice suddenly loud and clear over the slop of waves and wind. "I'm sure it will keep you up all night." Her eyes are feral, the thrust of her chest deliberate. "I sympathize with your condition, Knight-Captain."

Cullen glances aside. His templars are watching, whispering amongst themselves, and the Corporal carries barest hint of a smirk. "Don't flatter yourself," he says. "It was my duty. I didn't want to be there and I took no pleasure in it."

"That's a lie," she says, "and we both know it."

"I understand you're angry and I sympathize, but our acquaintance does not supersede my duty. I don't have to tolerate your abuse."

She leans close, and without thinking, he reciprocates, tilting his head so she can whisper into his ear. "I know you liked it, templar. I felt you get hard."

He recoils, his face awash in red, very nearly matching the blood that persistently crowns his nostrils. "Say what you will," he says, drawing up straight, swaying with the boat. "You're angry and you're lashing out at me. That's your prerogative, but I have always acted with integrity, and I resent any assertion to the contrary."

There is a brief moment where his heart hangs in his chest, unsure whether to rise or fall, uncertain if she has readied another blade to sheathe in his belly. She holds his gaze, but finally, mercifully, turns away. Cullen moves to the back of the boat, grabbing a post near the stern for support, and holds tight. He has crossed this bay innumerable times, but he has no sea legs. He is always at the ocean's mercy.

"She's a belligerent one, Captain," the Corporal says. "That mouth will get her trouble. The Gallows ain't Hightown."

"Few apostates come willingly," Cullen says, dabbing at his nose. "I can't begrudge her anger." He draws the handkerchief away, and it is spotted with fresh blood.


	3. Chapter 3

There is a cavity search.

Cullen protests perfunctorily on her behalf, apologizes, and leaves, and soon the house robe bearing the Amell seal is left torn, dirty and crumpled on the floor and Hawke is bent over the examination table as a female templar reaches between her legs. Hawke keeps her eyes forward, her mouth hard. Senior Enchanter Odell stands by impassively, her hands loose at her sides.

The templar probes and finds nothing. She withdraws and briskly spreads Hawke's cheeks. Hawke makes a sound, but it has already happened—a cold, slick finger penetrates slowly, carefully, searching.

"Unclench, miss," the templar says, not unkindly.

Hawke swallows and tries, and the templar says it again, and Hawke blinks steadily, unwilling to be grateful for the oil or the templar's patience. The templar finishes, rinses and wipes her fingers on a cloth, and leaves. Hawke straightens and looks at Odell as though it was her finger.

"You may dress now," Odell says, nodding to the pressed Circle robes and the heavy, sculpted metal belt, a distant relative of the shackles that bound her wrists before.

"I won't wear your yoke," Hawke says. It's the first thing she's said upon entering the exam room. Her anus aches and is slick and unfamiliar with oil. The specters of cold, strange fingers linger in her cunt. Her face is sore. Her scalp aches. Her heart lies dormant, beating calmly, preserving its strength.

Odell folds her hands. "You are not required to wear clothing, but I strongly recommend it. You should try to blend in." Her eyes take in everything and leave nothing behind, and Hawke meets her gaze unflinching. "You have enemies here. Things won't be easy for you."

Hawke laughs. It's a harsh sound, echoing in the cold room, and the torchlight seems to flicker by it.

"I was like you, once," Odell says. "That changed quickly enough."

"How long before you were eating out of their palms, Senior Enchanter?" Hawke asks, a curl in her lip.

"Eat or starve, it's your choice," Odell says. "You have to adapt if you want to survive here. I heard you were a survivor."

Hawke's lips press into a firm line, almost disappearing. Wordlessly, she shakes open the Circle robe and steps into it, tugging the fabric up the length of her body. The robe is several inches short and the cloth bows slightly at the seams along her hips, struggling to cover her frame. Gold embroidery emulating the Chantry sun draws the eye to the strong line of her neck, but the cut and neckline are ill-suited to broad shoulders and long limbs. Hawke is barely contained in the Circle's trappings.

Hawke's hand hovers above the belt, loath to touch the cool metal.

"It's enchanted," Odell says. "It suppresses ovulation and sperm production."

"Small favor," Hawke mutters.

"I thought so, too."

Hawke fastens the belt and it hangs heavy over her hips, a solid pressure against her groin.

"At least you're presentable," Odell says, finally. "When you're settled, we'll take your measurements and requisition something that fits. I'll give you a tour-"

"What do you want?" Hawke asks.

Odell's wide-set gray eyes regard her. "You hurt the Knight-Captain."

"Not enough," Hawke says.

Odell smiles. "Make up," she says.

Hawke fidgets with the belt. "I suppose you have a suggestion on that score."

"Do what you think necessary," Odell says. "You know the most effective way to curry his favor, I'm sure."

Hawke glances away. "This thing weighs a ton."

"You'll get used to it," Odell says.

Odell gives her a tour of the Gallows. They weave through the morning bustle of mages and templars streaming down stone corridors lined with faded carpet runners. Most of the mages keep their heads down as they scurry to their destinations, but Hawke doesn't, and Odell doesn't either. The apprentices do not seem to know who Hawke is, and if the Enchanters know, they pretend not to. The templars' eyes are watchful and wary, however. A few woof under their breath at Hawke as she passes, but she does not hear the old slurs that peppered her ears when she lived in Lowtown.

"How many have you injured and humiliated, I wonder?" Odell asks.

"Definitely not enough," Hawke says.

Odell shows her the book-binding facilities and the enchantment chambers. Both are rife with expressionless Tranquil, gliding like specters from task to task. Hawke is unable to tear her eyes from the the Chantry suns branded on the smooth flesh of their foreheads. A pretty brand to match their pretty robes and pretty belts. As if there was any doubt whom they belonged to.

"Many volunteer," Odell says, noticing her stare. "More than you'd suppose. But not all."

"Shall I look forward to it?" Hawke asks, swallowing to rid the lump that forms in her throat. The lump remains. She has never been so close to Tranquil since Karl; in the Courtyard, she always avoids them, looking past their dull eyes or through them, her heart thunderous in her chest.

"No," Odell says, watching the Tranquil waft to and fro. "She believes discipline should include repentance. Tranquil do not regret."

In the library, Hawke shows her first spark of interest, and Odell allows her to wander. Hawke walks down the long rows of leather-bound volumes, her fingertips grazing the etched spines. She pauses to translate the title of a worn book written in ancient Tevene, and her lips form a tiny smile. It is an instructional manual on shapeshifting, precisely the sort of book the Chantry would normally burn or lock away. She turns to Odell, who is waiting, her hands folded behind her back.

"Your father must have taught you a great deal," Odell says, and once again, the gray eyes penetrate deeply. "He worked in the library before he escaped the Circle, didn't he?"

Hawke nods, her fingers tingling with the memory of painstakingly tracing Arcane letters and memorizing conjugation by candlelight. She always shared her father's love of books and the old languages. Now she shares his prison, too.

"The library is staffed exclusively by mages," Odell continues. "Many of the recruits are illiterate and the educated templars have more pressing duties. In any event, it would be difficult for them to organize historical volumes written in languages they cannot read. The cataloging system is rather complicated." She motions to the dusty stacks of disorganized manuscripts stacked atop tables and desks. "Pity they are so understaffed. Maker only knows what has been sitting in these stacks all these years."

When Hawke smiles this time, she shows teeth.


	4. Chapter 4

The healer mends Cullen's nose without comment, but not before the recruits have gotten an eyeful and word has spread that Marian Hawke thrashed the Knight-Captain with only a house robe and her bare fists. Cullen does not allow her to heal the rest. Carrying the sundry bruises and cuts is small penance, but he does not know what else to do.

Cullen glares at the healer and her knowing smile, and barks reprimand at the recruits who scatter in his wake, but when the time comes to deliver his official report to his Commander, he keeps his eyes on his folded hands, looking up only to catch whatever snatches of approval she might offer.

There are none.

Knight-Commander Meredith taps the paper against her desk and says, "I have already received letters from Magistrate Volan and Messere Durell. The ink is still wet. They claim Apprentice Hawke's arrest was motivated by politics and the timing is no coincidence. Volen want to know the grounds for the arrest, and suggests we can only arrest an apostate under provocation. Durell demands proof of magehood and says we must furnish a witness who will testify under oath to seeing Apprentice Hawke use magic. I'm not sure which is more absurd."

The dwarf has acted swiftly, as Cullen knew he would. Cullen lifts his eyes and says, "Her phylactery will be proof."

"They are not interested in reason." Meredith is scanning the report. "You do not mention any use of magic during the arrest."

"There was none."

"A smite was used." She scans his face, her eyes moving from one injury to another.

"Yes, but Serah Hawke's self-defense was entirely physical."

Meredith slides the report across the desk. "Magic must have been used," she says, tapping the sheet sharply. "That is the only reason a templar would use a smite."

Cullen's brow furrows. He does not take the report.

"Surely she did not subdue an armed Captain with her hands alone." Meredith's gaze weighs on him.

"Knight-Commander, Serah Hawke is an accomplished warrior, and was… very angry." Cullen's shoulders droop slightly.

"But not angry enough to use magic."

Cullen alternates between staring at his hands and at the neat, upside down rows of his own meticulous handwriting.

Meredith gestures to the chair near her desk. Cullen sits with some maneuvering; the chair is small and uncomfortable. "You have mentioned Apprentice Hawke in reports, but never in regards to magic. Were you aware she was a mage? Have you seen her use magic?"

Cullen blinks at the sudden flash of memory: Marian standing protective and tall alongside him as he lifts his shield, her hair swept back, her fists igniting, eyes steadfast on the demons looming before them.

"Knight-Commander," Cullen begins, and wets his lip. "I understand the Magistrate's concerns, the timing of the arrest was unfortunate. In light of these objections, perhaps we should release Serah Hawke under watch. There is precedent, after all, we are still allowing Anders to…"

At Meredith's look, he trails off. "Anders," she says, drawing the name out. "If we had arrested him, we would have a full-blown riot on our hands instead of letters from overeager politicians." Her eyes narrow in thought. "No," she says, finally. "Release is not an option. I can't risk it. The ideas expressed in that manifesto are far too radical and dangerous to risk dissemination. She must be supervised."

"Serah Hawke has been a staunch ally of the Order for years. There must be some explanation."

Meredith frowns. "A friend of convenience, clearly. She is a Resolutionist, we have it in her own handwriting."

"Knight-Commander, there must be more than meets the eye," Cullen says. "I will vouch for Serah Hawke's character, things cannot be as they seem. She has a fine and uncommon intelligence, and I would not expect her to have traditional views on the matter, but surely she would not espouse the utter destruction of the Circle system and the Chantry. It's wholly irresponsible, the fallout would be catastrophic."

Meredith taps her fingers on the arm of her chair. "When I debriefed Corporal Eren, she told me she deployed a smite because she thought you were thralled." Meredith's fingers still. "I told her that was not possible."

"No," Cullen says, holding up a hand. "It isn't, absolutely not. I trained extensively against blood magic, and Serah Hawke would never-"

"And yet, where Apprentice Hawke is concerned, you are most reluctant to carry out your duty. You were quite willing to seize these materials and arrest the originator until the link to Marian Hawke was discovered."

Cullen hears his voice rise as he says, "Perhaps I am reluctant because we have arrested an upstanding citizen while the real radical is at large."

Meredith steeples her fingers. "What precisely is the nature of your relationship, Knight-Captain?"

"We have been acquainted several years."

"And you know her well enough to vouch for her character."

"Yes, absolutely," Cullen says, leaning forward. "She has helped the Order on a number of occasions—with Keran, as you recall—she—" Cullen wets his lip again. "Knight-Commander, in all the time I have known her Marian has conducted herself with the utmost integrity, she is not a danger, to the contrary, I have never known a person with greater strength or resolve—"

Meredith rubs her forehead as she listens. "Marian?" she asks tiredly.

"I—" Cullen doggedly pushes onward. "Knight-Commander, I assure you, Serah Hawke is—"

"That is enough, Knight-Captain," she says, and Cullen dutifully swallows the rest. "Have the estate searched, I want every copy of that manifesto confiscated. In the meantime, meet with Magistrate Volan and satisfy whatever legal objections she may have. Apprentice Hawke is a mage and her arrest is justified on those grounds. Volan does not need to know about this manifesto, that is immaterial as far as she is concerned. Make it clear we must be allowed to perform our duty and protect this city, regardless of whatever political clout an apostate may carry. She is a mage, she belongs here, and she will remain in our custody."

Cullen's throat is dry, but he promptly says, "Yes, Knight-Commander," almost as an automatic reflex, and rises.

"I trust you above all others." Meredith gathers Marian's file and shuffles it briskly against the desk. "I know you would never abuse your station, and that you will always properly represent the Order." She holds it out to him.

"Yes, Knight-Commander," Cullen says, taking the file, his back straight. But once he is in the hall, his shoulders sag, emphasizing the dread percolating in the pit of his stomach. The pages in his hand might as well be made of lead.


	5. Chapter 5

Hawke cannot sleep alone. It is a product of years spent sharing a straw mattress with Bethany and maneuvering around sisterly elbows; followed by months in the creaking, reeking steerage of the refugee ship; followed by years on the hard-packed floor of Gamlen's hovel, back-to-back with Carver, so their mother can have the lone spare mattress. Amell Manor presents a unique challenge: a room all her own. She lies awake night after night in the large four-poster bed, drowning in cool sheets and pillows. Eventually, she fills her bed with human warmth, but still she stirs throughout the night, staring up in the dark while sundry bedmates doze peacefully nearby.

The Apprentice Ward is most like the ship, only without the violent rocking and lap of waves against the walls and sickly-sweet spatter on the floor. There is the the constant rustle of restless bodies, gentle snores and murmurs and crying, and wet breathing in the not-quite-darkness, the cacophony of communal slumber. The bed is hard, the pillow flat, and there is the occasional squeak (she has read it is nearly impossible to rid prisons of mice) and Hawke herself is vengeful and taut, a quivering bowstring drawn back to the brink. Nevertheless, that first night she sleeps like a babe, and does not remember her dreams. Perhaps so many mages dreaming so close together have tamed the Fade. The next morning, her mood is tempered with restful sleep when the Senior Enchanter comes to assign her to a work detail.

"I trust you've had magical instruction. How would you rank it?"

"Extensive," Hawke says.

The Senior Enchanter lifts her eyes from the parchment.

Hawke opens her palm, displaying a latticework of scar tissue.

"The old-fashioned way," the Senior Enchanter says, with a short nod. "They used to do it that way here. It's mostly theoretical instruction these days."

"My father was educated here," Hawke says. Her eyes follow a pair of apprentices tottering under the weight of their books.

"Well, whatever he taught you will have to do." The Senior Enchanter scribbles something else. "You're too old for instruction and we wouldn't have enough time to correct any deficiencies, anyway. They've fast-tracked your Harrowing, it will probably happen in the next few days. You'll be assigned a temporary work detail until then." The Senior Enchanter turns a page. "Lavatories or Chantry?"

Hawke laughs. "Aren't they the same?"

The Senior Enchanter lifts her eyes again. "Watch that mouth, or you'll be emptying chamber pots for the next year."

"Chantry," Hawke says.

The Senior Enchanter makes a note. "And maybe they are the same, but it isn't your place to say so, is it, mage? Report to Sister Margery and don't push your luck. One complaint and I'll reassign you to shit duty."

The Sisters in the Gallows Chapel are not like those in Hightown. Their hands are calloused, their nails short, and their robes meticulously patched. Their sanctuary is similarly humble. The pulpit is on the same level as the pews and there are no confessionals. Above the pulpit is a large picture of Andraste draped in flowing robes, her dark hair swept back, her fists alight with fire as she immolates. Andraste seems to embrace the fire, her dark eyes are determined. The image is a stark contrast to the colossal statue that presides over the Hightown Chantry.

The sermons are different, too. The Sisters chant of moths and flame and light, and speak little of obedience or magic. They yearn to spread the chant to the four corners of Thedas, or at the very least, the four corners of the Gallows.

Apprentices are awarded reprieves from certain chores if they attend chant and the pews are filled with young mages at varying degrees of attention. Hawke and an Enchanter named Menna are assigned the candles. They light them one by one, until the sanctuary is circled in tiny dancing flames.

A few templars also attend the morning sermon, Cullen among them. Hawke avoids his eyes, content to let him suffocate in the shell of his armor, pleased to see bruises from their altercation remain. After the sermon, as Hawke goes to snuff the candles, she watches Cullen greet the Mother and receive a blessing. He kneels before Andraste's flaming palms and chants on bended knee, his lips moving.

"Most prefer the services in Hightown, if they attend chant at all," Sister Margery says, beside her. "Our teachings are a bit contemporary for the older templars."

Hawke's eyes travel upward to the picture of Andraste aflame.

"It's from the Imperium," Margery says. "The Imperial Chantry teaches Andraste was a mage."

Hawke licks her lips. "That's…"

"Heresy?" Margery smiles. "You're familiar with Andrastian doctrine, then."

"My mother taught us all the Chantry's bedtime stories. My sister even believed some of them," Hawke says, turning to the candles. "These mages lap up your doctrine because they have nowhere to go and nothing to live for. You can make me light your candles, but you can't make me care."

Margery, accustomed to such resistance, glides away in search of more amenable prey. Menna has already begun to extinguish the candles on the far side, dampening them one by one with the little bronze snuffer. As she moves to each new candle, the light illuminates the Dalish tattoos curling along her cheeks and forehead before it is snuffed out.

Hawke extinguishes her candles with a dry thumb and forefinger. As each flame dies, its smoke wafts between her fingertips. The momentary sear of fire on skin comforts her.

"If you want to beat them, you must learn their language," Menna whispers, when they meet in the middle.

Hawke does not reply, and extinguishes the last light. At the next morning sermon, her dark eyes are black holes, sucking in every chant and word that falls from the Mother's lips.

After the sermon, when Menna moves alongside her to extinguish the candles, Hawke says, "Woman creates god. Man worships god."

"Creates?" Menna asks. "Or steals?"

Hawke's eyes fall to Cullen, rocking on bended knee before the portrait of Andraste. His eyes are closed. His lips are moving.

Menna moves to the next candle. "They pray to a god who does not answer. Is it because he does not exist, or because they chant the wrong name?"

"…Woman steals god. Man worships god. Man worships woman. Woman becomes god," Hawke muses, and extinguishes the light.


	6. Chapter 6

Cullen has taken extra lyrium these past few nights, but it has not helped his sleep. He blinks blearily at the report before him, hardly seeing the words, and starts when Recruit Ramos bursts into his office. Ramos has a tendency to burst into his office, and Cullen has a tendency to give her weary reprimand for not knocking, but today, she has a memo clutched in her armored hand.

"Knight-Captain," she says, drawing up straight and saluting. "I've been assigned to assist you at the Harrowing." She delivers the memo like a javelin, with an abrupt forward motion, and Cullen takes it without looking.

Ramos walks quickly to keep pace with him in the crowded halls. She takes two steps to his one, her brows knit in concentration. Cullen glances at her and slows his gait, but Ramos' brow remains furrowed, even after her stride eases.

"Is this your first Harrowing, recruit?" he asks.

"Yes, Knight-Captain."

Cullen nods, remembering.

The Harrowing Chamber is on the topmost floor of the Gallows. The templars climb the wide, winding stone staircase side-by-side, their armor clanking softly with each step. The stairs are cold and damp, lit only by the dim flicker of torchlight, and they leave faint footprints in the condensation on the stones. "What is your responsibility if the designated slayer falls?" Cullen asks. He never assumes a recruit's level of preparedness. The newer batches are far more interested in fighting and drinking than rules and responsibilities.

"You would never fall, ser."

"I appreciate your confidence, but what is your task if I do?"

Ramos' brow wrinkles. "You are the Captain."

Cullen stops and Ramos takes two more steps before she notices and turns, placing them eye-to-eye. "Anyone can fall, recruit. No one is impervious."

Ramos' brow wrinkles further. "But… the Knight-Commander appoints the Captain." Her eyes narrow. "Is this a test, ser?"

Cullen studies her.

Panic flickers across her broad face. "I know you won't fall, ser! I have never known a person with greater integrity or strength! There is no finer templar among us, except the Knight-Commander herself, of course!" The corners of Cullen's mouth tug upward and Ramos clears her throat. "I speak the truth, ser. The Knight-Commander surely agrees with me, that's why she tasked you with guarding Marian Hawke during her Harrowing."

Cullen's small, burgeoning smile is wiped away in an instant. "What?"

Ramos shrinks back. "Marian Hawke, ser. The memo..."

Cullen is already reading it, his face darkening. "Come," he says, shortly, and they resume their ascent. The chamber is empty when they arrive. Cullen stands alongside the lyrium pedestal, his eyes rooted on the door. Ramos walks the perimeter, craning her neck to study the vaulted ceiling, her fingers tapping the hilt of her sword.

Marian enters the chamber with First Enchanter Orsino. She is still wearing the ill-fitting apprentice robe, her eyes hard under her unkempt tangle of hair. The First Enchanter stands sleek and tidy beside her, and she looks almost feral by contrast. Cullen's fingers twitch. He has a sudden urge to do something—brush her hair, perhaps. He is not sure.

Marian sees the shimmering lyrium pedestal and nods tersely, unsurprised, as though expecting it. She once remarked to Cullen that her father was a Circle mage; doubtless he told her of the ritual. The recollection of that intimate detail makes Cullen's stomach churn quietly. He avoids the coolness that has settled between her dark lashes. Orsino speaks in a hushed tone and Marian nods, but her eyes are only for the lyrium. Ramos fidgets. Cullen waits. In time, Marian leaves Orsino's side and approaches the pedestal. She does not even glance at the templars.

Cullen's hands clench at his sides, opening and closing, and he takes a step toward her. "Serah Hawke, I doubt you need any assurances, but I am here for you."

"In more ways than one, I expect," she says, meeting his eyes. "Do you look forward to burying your sword in me?"

Cullen's face blisters red. Ramos looks away, shifting from one armored foot to the next.

"Touch the pedestal when you are ready, Serah Hawke," Orsino says, his voice a gentle warning. "I will be here when you return."

Marian lifts her hand and takes a short breath.

"Andraste watch over you," Cullen says, quickly.

She glances at him, takes another breath, and dips a finger along the shimmering surface. Silvery lyrium glides up her hand and arm, weaving through fabric and skin to her heart, and her knees buckle.

Cullen and Ramos scramble to catch her. They gently lower her to the ground. Ramos rises, resting her hand on the hilt of her sword, but Cullen stays kneeling alongside her.

Marian is gone a long time.

"Knight-Captain," Ramos says finally, her eyes wary.

"At ease," Cullen says. He watches Marian's brows draw and relax in intervals. At once point, she nearly bears her teeth, her lip curling into a snarl before going slack again. When Marian's hands abruptly splay, her fingernails digging into the cold stone, Ramos' arm jerks in reciprocation, partially unsheathing her sword.

"Stand down," Cullen says, his hand going to his own hilt, and Ramos blinks and takes a quick step back. "At ease," he says, in a calmer voice, and adds, "Don't be so jumpy. The transformation is unmistakable."

"Sorry, ser," the recruit says.

Cullen glances at Orsino. The First Enchanter's shoulders are tense. "It takes as long as it takes," Cullen says, more to himself. Orsino does not answer.

Cullen does not remember when he begins to pray; before he knows it, he has fallen into the comforting rhythms of the Chant and rocks on bended knee. During the twelfth stanza, Marian's chest heaves, and she takes a gasping breath and reaches blindly. Cullen holds his hand out and she latches on. The strength in her grip lifts his heart, but when she blinks awake and focuses, and sees it is his hand, she releases him immediately, and his heart plummets back to the depths.

"You send unarmed, unprepared apprentices to face Pride demons?" she asks. "Why don't you just take them all out in the yard and hang them?"

He will not be chastised, not by her, not about this. He has seen how easily a mage can turn. A demon is not bested solely by power or knowledge, one must also have strength of character. "Demons are drawn to the susceptible. Apprentices must be tested this way for their own safety," he says. "You of all people should appreciate that."

Marian trembles as she turns on her side to rise. Cullen offers his hand and she ignores it, taking First Enchanter Orsino's instead, and is drawn to her feet. Her face is tight and weary. Orsino escorts her out of the chamber, and Cullen leaves them be.

"Knight-Captain," Ramos says, when they are alone again on the cold staircase, leaving faint footprints on the stone. "Does it normally take that long? The First Enchanter seemed concerned."

Cullen does not answer immediately. They descend one floor, then another, and Cullen says, "It takes as long as it takes."


	7. Chapter 7

After surviving the Harrowing, Mages are given certain privileges: a private room, new robes, access to a staff, and unsupervised leisure time. Hawke takes her first block of free time in the training yard at midday, when the grounds are empty and the sun is at its zenith, and sweats out her frustrations.

She is halfway through a short sword training routine when Cullen opens the gate and crosses the yard. She wipes the sweat from her brow and waits. When he is within hearing, she says, "What do you want?"

"To see how you're adjusting."

She strikes the dummy low in the belly and straw dust poofs out the seams. "You must be some kind of masochist." She strikes again. "What do you really want?"

Cullen's pause gives her pause. She stops and gives him her attention. "Before, when you said you didn't have to be nice to me anymore… Did you truly feel that way? That you had to?"

Hawke's bark of laughter startles him. "Wow, you really are." She props the wooden practice blade against the wall and crosses her arms. "Don't you ever wonder why all these mages are so sweet to you?"

Cullen frowns. "If by 'sweet' you mean polite, no, I don't. They appreciate my responsibilities and understand how the system works. Treating each other with courtesy and respect is part of it. The Gallows is not the prison you supposed."

"Cullen, you're the Knight-Captain. You saw me use magic. I could hardly afford to get on your bad side." She sighs. "Void, everything I did was to protect myself, to keep from ending up here. For all the sodding good it did me."

His frown deepens. "Surely not everything." As the thought percolates, he stiffens and looks away.

"Wait," Hawke says. "I didn't—"

"Enough."

"Cullen, I didn't mean that."

"It's irrelevant," he says, with a wave of his hand. "It's no business of mine what you do or why you do it. I merely wanted to know if you were adjusting, which you evidently are, since you have the energy to bludgeon a dummy."

"Cullen," she says.

"I apologize for interrupting your training. Good day, Mage Hawke."

"Don't you dare."

"My apologies. How shall I refer to you?"

"I'm not your subordinate."

"No, you're my ward."

"That's right. I'm under your control now. You basically own me."

"Sweet Andraste," he says, throwing up his hands. "Why must you be like this? Why can't you appreciate—"

"Everything you've done for me? Do I owe you, Knight-Captain?"

"No," he says. "I never expect reciprocation. Certainly not if it lacks any sincerity whatsoever."

"Don't act like I never did anything for you."

"Yes, but—I thought you were helping me because you wanted to, not because you thought you had no choice."

"It's done, Cullen. It doesn't matter anymore."

"It does matter," he says. "It matters to me." His eyes narrow. "Did you even like me? Or were you merely tolerating me because you had to?"

Hawke crosses her arms more tightly, digging into the fabric of her training gambeson. "Cullen, I'm the one in prison. I'm the one who gets to be mad right now. Not you."

"Always deflection. I ask you an honest question and you turn it around. I suppose I have my answer."

Hawke snatches the practice sword. "You want honesty?" she asks, shaking the tip at him. "Fine, you first. If I'd taken that sodding flower, would we be having this conversation right now?"

Cullen's face, already red with the heat and anger, reddens further. "I resent that," he said. "I told you, I did my very best—"

"Then I made the right choice."

Cullen's mouth falls open, and Hawke steels herself for the deluge, but he never has the opportunity to unleash it.

"Mage Hawke!" Orsino calls, and both turn to see him walking purposefully across the field.

Cullen snaps his mouth shut, taking a short step back and a deep breath to go with it. "First Enchanter," he says, when Orsino nears.

"Knight-Captain," Orsino says, assessing the scene. "I wanted to have a word with Mage Hawke. I hope I'm not interrupting?"

"No," Hawke says. "Not at all."

Cullen wheels and marches across the field.

Hawke ignores him and returns her attention to the target dummy. "How can I help you?"

Orsino watches Cullen depart. "I didn't have the opportunity to congratulate you on your harrowing."

Hawke strikes and the dummy shudders on impact. "I'm amazed any apprentices come back at all. You must train them better than I gave you credit. Is the purpose of the harrowing to thin the Gallow's numbers?"

"The incantation is designed to test each apprentice's unique strengths and weaknesses," Orsino says, watching as her next strike lands. "The test is different for everyone. We could analyze the encounter and consider why specific challenges were presented, if you like."

Hawke strikes a third time and the dummy sways, hemorrhaging straw. "If I'd known I'd end up in here anyway, I would have taken your side more often."

Orsino smiles. "Hindsight," he says, mildly. "House Amell supported the Order for decades. We did not expect you or your mother to be any different. Some of the Enchanters resent that you curried favor with the Knight-Captain and distanced yourself from us, but I understand why you did it. We all do what we must to survive. Now that you're here, I hope you'll stand with us, if only for your personal benefit."

"You're glad I got arrested."

"I won't lie to you. You're far more useful to us on the inside."

Hawke blows out a breath through her nose. "How can I possibly be of use to anyone while I'm a prisoner?"

"You can do a great deal of good in the Circle, of that I am certain. If I seem opportunistic, I apologize, but you are an accomplished and learned mage and I'd be remiss to let the opportunity pass."

Hawke's chest lifts and she straightens her shoulders. "Were the contraband library books your idea?" she asks. "It's rather clever."

"It began before my time, in more lenient days. Many mages have contributed to our library over the years. Fortunately, as the Circle grows more restrictive, the templar ranks grow more uneducated, so we have been able to continue amassing information and training in private."

Hawke grants the dummy a reprieve. She puts the practice sword over her shoulder as they fall into step together. "If you were to help us," Orsino continues, "It would go a long way towards gaining the trust of your colleagues. I understand the templars have been a bit overwhelmed by your private library—both the volume and contents. What languages do you read?"

"Ancient and modern Tevene, Orlesian, some Qunlat. Most of my collection is history and magical theory. Harmless enough, but I'm glad I didn't leave any translations lying around to be misinterpreted."

"Yes, they can be quite paranoid when it comes to the practical applications of unfamiliar magic." Orsino opens the gate, and Hawke steps through. "I will recommend you be assigned to the library, if you are interested. We are in desperate need of someone with your skills." Hawke nods. Orsino clears his throat. "There is also the matter of the Knight-Captain."

"I've already been advised on that."

"Oh?"

"Odell says I should make up."

"Ah." Orsino nods slowly. "The Knight-Captain is a man of strong principles, but Senior Enchanter Odell believes he would be malleable in the right hands."

"He's not nearly as malleable as everyone seems to think."

"Perhaps sympathetic is a better word. In any case, don't underestimate the effect you have on him. Even I can see he is desperate to mend your relationship. Little wonder, considering his situation."

Hawke shrugs. "He wants people to like him, and he's upset when they don't. Most people are like that."

"The Knight-Captain is in a lonely place. The Gallows requires a team of Captains to run efficiently, but the Knight-Commander refuses to promote others to the rank. He is caught between the Commander and the troops, with no peer, and he is a foreigner in the bargain. I know what it's like to be an outsider in the Gallows."

"He's decent enough," Hawke says, frowning. "Surely…" But even as she says it, she knows Orsino is right. She has seen the baleful looks the recruits give their Captain's back and the way the Lieutenant's eyes glide past him with cool indifference. If the templars woof at her, they surely woof at him as well.

"I'm sure mending your friendship would benefit us all," Orsino says, placing a fatherly hand on her back, and under the comforting warmth of his palm, Hawke can summon no argument.


	8. Chapter 8: PAST

"Don't look now, Ser, but that blade has been eyeballing you for the last ten minutes."

Naturally, Cullen glances over his shoulder.

Marian Hawke's eyes drift casually up to his face and stay there until he turns back to the supply order. Cullen clears his throat and scans the order, his pen poised at the signatory line. Finally, the corporal touches his wrist, and lingers there. "Captain, it's training equipment, if you could just sign the last page…"

Cullen briskly flips the page, breaking contact, and her hand drops. "This is ten sovereigns over budget, corporal."

"Yes, Captain, but it's such a nominal amount in the grand scheme of things, and we really need—"

"Trim ten," Cullen says, handing it back without looking at her.

"Yes, Captain," the corporal says, venturing to meet his eye. She is unable to catch it, and moves on.

Cullen turns to Marian Hawke as she steps up. She smells more strongly of lyrium than usual. Cullen tries to ignore the way the sweet tang mingles with the scent of her hair and sweat, but the gentle ocean breeze does not help.

"Work for the Order?" she asks.

"Plenty, I'm afraid. We have reports of apostates hiding on the Wounded Coast." He unfolds the map and jabs a gloved finger in the appropriate places. "Here, and here. I cannot spare any templars at the moment, I understand you know the area. The assignment is to investigate these caves and bring back any apostates found for processing."

"Surely they're not hurting anyone all the way out there," Hawke says, leaning against the wall.

This has become a something of a ritual between them. Cullen says, "I need to ensure they don't. That is why I want them brought back."

"Have they broken the law?"

"These mages are not like you," he says, dropping his eyes to scribble a note, "or I. We have discussed this many times. Apostates must be placed in the Circle system, for their sake. Only the most exceptional mages are strong enough to resist possession without the Circle's support, as you know."

She shifts at the word, "exceptional," and straightens to stand. "What if they're not a threat?"

"I can never assume a mage isn't a threat. The only way to prove they are capable of withstanding demonic forces would be to give me a demonstration, and by doing so, you obligate me to arrest them for using magic in my sight." Cullen makes another note. "You appreciate the delicacy of my position."

Hawke places a gloved hand over his, stilling the pen.

"If there are any blood mages on the Wounded Coast, I will bring them to you immediately," she says.

He blows a small breath out between his teeth. "I would certainly _hope_ so, Serah Hawke."

"I would never let blood mages run free. I promise you that. But surely good, law-abiding apostates would not overly concern the Order, if they were to escape."

"We have turned a blind eye before," Cullen says, slowly withdrawing his hand. "But that leniency is limited, and should not be tested."

Hawke turns abruptly. "As you like," she says. "I'll bring them in by nightfall."

Nevertheless, when she returns at the end of his shift, she is alone and covered in dirt. A deep, fresh slash runs down her cheek.

"The caves are clear," she says.

"And the mages?" Cullen asks.

"You were right," she says, tossing her head so the breeze will blow her hair away from her wounded face, rather into it. "Never assume a mage isn't a threat."

Cullen frowns. "How many?"

"Four," she says, looking over the bay as she wipes her brow with the back of a dusty, gloved hand. Flakes of dried blood cling to the heel of her palm. "All dead. We buried them. I can mark where—"

"No," he says. "That isn't necessary, Serah Hawke." He reaches for his coin purse. "What a terrible waste."

Hawke's brow furrows. "There was no reasoning with them, trust me."

"I'm not questioning your judgment," he says. "I only wish…" He shakes his head as he picks through the purse.

"You probably wish there weren't any mages," she says, with a dry laugh.

"No, I wish we had a better system, so mages did not turn to blood magic as a last resort. I wish we could make them understand. The Circle is for their protection, it isn't…" Hawke's eyes have grown cool. Cullen continues fishing for soverigns. "Nevermind. Here's a bonus for your trouble." Hawke's fingertips graze his palm as he places the coins her hand. He could swear her fingers still radiates heat.

"Coin is well and fine, but I don't suppose you'd consider a little lyrium for a bonus," she says.

He pauses.

_"Now_ you're questioning my judgment."

"With all due respect, Serah Hawke, I have some authority regarding the detriments of lyrium. There is a point after which one cannot quit without the risk of death."

"You'd be the expert."

"I am," he says. "I'd hate to see you bound to it, as we are."

"The Chantry is the main supplier. It's in your best interest to get me hooked so I'll be dependent on you."

"I would rather you worked with me of your own will."

"What happens when I decide I don't want to help anymore?"

"I have failed. It's my job to show you the Order is worth helping."

Hawke smiles, clinking the coins in her palm. "All right, you win, Knight-Captain."

Cullen reaches for her shoulder after she turns away, but allows his hand to drop to his side before making contact. "You are near the point of no return, Serah Hawke."

She stops. "How can you possibly know that?"

"Lyrium concentration can be smelled."

She faces him. "You've been smelling me?"

Cullen blinks. "I—not intentionally, you—"

She closes the distance, until they are nose-to-nose and she almost brushes against his plate, and says, "What do you smell, expert?"

Dust. Sweat. Woman. Leather. Musk. Blood. Salt. Earth. Fire. Ash. The barest touch of cedar. And…

"Daily usage, approximately three ounces."

Hawke rocks back on her heels. She is looking at him differently now. "And you recommend a reduction?"

"I recommend quitting entirely. You are in the early stages, you will be able to stop with minimal risk if you begin tapering immediately."

"Go on."

He tells her how, unsure if she will follow his counsel. But little by little, the spice and metal fade, until one day she comes to him grumpy and dirty, covered with fresh bruises, and holds out a sullen hand for payment, smelling only of woman and sweat and leather.

"What are you looking at?" she asks, querulously.

"I don't know what you mean," he says, in a tone that matches, but when he presses the coins into her hand, he lingers.


	9. Chapter 9: PAST

In the summer, Kirkwall is afflicted with sudden, heavy downpours. Clouds converge swiftly in empty skies and rain thunders down, flushing silt and mineral waste from the mines and slag from the foundries. The subsequent gales blow the stench of the mines through the otherwise-impervious Hightown, wrinkling the nose of servant and noble alike.

Such weather pushes them close the first time. There is no ferry at the docks, and Hawke shields her face ineffectually with a gloved hand, scanning for cover, as the onslaught soaks her through. A gauntlet beckons her through the haze and she follows, and is soon squeezed in tight with Knight-Captain Cullen under the alcove. They are not alone; all along the Gallows, merchants and templars and blades huddle in meager shelter, their backs pressed against carved effigies of toiling slaves.

"Maker, that came out of sodding nowhere," Hawke says.

Cullen shields her from the dirty rain spattering against the wall. He is drenched, his uniform visibly soaked beneath his heavy armor, wet skirts clinging to knee and thigh. His hair, barely controlled on temperate days, is a mass of ringlets. Rainwater trickles down his neck.

Hawke studies the visual, fascinated by the juxtaposition of curls, scruff, curves, hard edges, wet cloth, and steel. When he notices her looking, she says, "I bet you can't wait to get out of that plate and into something more comfortable, Knight-Captain," with a lilt in her voice.

Cullen laughs, a short exhale, and Hawke is aware of her thigh pressed against his. She shifts, and he turns to give her room, and somehow they end up closer than before, but slightly less rained upon.

"Fortunately, plate doesn't shrink," he says. "I daresay you'll require assistance to peel out of those leathers, Serah Hawke." She searches his face, but Cullen's smile has the bland innocence of a child's. She habitually ignores these bits of innuendo, as she is never sure of his intent, but the wayward little curls are reassuring and she deviates from the safety of her script. "Is that an offer, Knight-Captain?"

"I could never refuse a lady as charming as yourself."

Hawke faces him fully, her eyes bright. "Cullen," she says, the word nearly a laugh.

Cullen smiles, but glances aside. "Forgive my familiarity, Serah Hawke. I overstepped."

"Why should I?" she asks, leaning closer.

Cullen does not reciprocate, nor does he draw away. "I have an unfair advantage."

"What? You're too handsome to resist?"

Cullen's eyebrows lift. "No, of course not, I only meant…" Hawke grins at him. He sighs. "You're teasing me." He rakes his fingers through his hair, making the curls even more unruly, and her eyes follow the motion. "I was referring to our circumstances." He gestures to the rain. "That is, ah, you have no escape at the moment. Unless you want to be swept away."

No escape, and no companions. It is one of the few times she has conversed with him without a pirate or rogue or angry sword lingering nearby. "I doubt many women escape you," she says, too easily, and Cullen's smile fades.

"I didn't mean it like that," she says, but Cullen merely glances out over the courtyard and says nothing. Hawke rubs her forehead. It is a small misstep in the scheme of things. Nevertheless, regret simmers in her. "Maybe being swept away wouldn't be the worst thing," she mutters, more to herself.

Cullen wets his lip. "Do you want to be?" he asks, still looking over the courtyard, and his tone is so tentative, so solicitous, it spurs her heart's tempo.

Before she can speak, or think, the weather abruptly changes. The clouds dissipate and the gaunt, tortured statues that ring the courtyard are no longer softened and distorted by rain. Sunlight reflects off the Sword of Mercy etched over Cullen's chest. Above, the soaked banner of the Order slaps slowly, monotonously, against the side of the high granite walls of the prison they shelter against.

The spell is broken, and she is chagrined to find that a Templar Captain's pretty face and soft voice, close in the intimacy of the rain, have subverted all her internal warning mechanisms. This is different from the vague, forbidden fantasies she indulges in while touching herself at night or the carefully-choreographed playacting, where each look and gesture has a calculated benefit determined long in advance. She can lie to herself about a lot of things, but not this. She's attracted to him.

Hawke pushes off the wall. "I should go before I get stuck here."

Cullen's brows lift, but he merely says, "Maker guide you, Serah Hawke." She feels his eyes follow her to the ferry.

That night, when she is alone in bed and cannot find satisfaction, she puts aside her usual fantasies in favor of the shameful ones hidden away in dark corners. She cannot abide the thought of a templar on top of her, not even Cullen, but she can imagine him beneath her, at her mercy and her pleasure, and she does. She imagines his wrists bound to the bedposts as she rides him, she imagines the involuntary jerk of his hips, of forcing him to moan her name. When she comes, her body clenches so hard it makes her gasp.

After, her dismay at the fantasy's effectiveness overpowers her lingering pleasure and she is left more unsatisfied than before. She abandons her traitorous clitoris, wiping her fingers on the sheets. She goes to the bathroom and draws icy water and scrubs vigorously between her legs until all traces of warmth are gone.

The next time they meet, Fenris is at her side, and their conversation is formal, with nary a hint of the flirtation they shared in the rain.

She knows she should be glad.

She hates that she's not.


	10. Chapter 10

At the Keep, Cullen runs the gauntlet. It is much longer than usual. He is badgered up and down the intricate carpet runners, from Magistrate to Magistrate, even to the Seneschal and back again, about Marian Hawke. Cullen can smell the Merchant Guild sovereigns greasing their palms. When the Order's business is finally, mercifully concluded, he moves to the exit straightaway, eager for escape.

"Cullen," Guard-Captain Aveline calls. She is standing at the bottom of the stairs leading to the Guard barracks. Her hands are on her hips.

"Guard-Captain Aveline," Cullen replies, his shoulders drooping.

"A word with you?"

Cullen descends the stairs to her office. Most of Guards milling about avoid his eye, but Guardsman Brennan offers him a smile and he gratefully returns it.

Cullen shuts the door and says, without preamble, "I did my best."

"I have to wonder. If I can keep Hawke out of prison, you ought to be able to keep her out of the Gallows."

"You cannot deny Serah Hawke is a mage."

Aveline crosses her arms.

Cullen sighs. "You're angry."

"That should be the least of your worries."

Cullen rubs his forehead. "I was following orders. Why can't anyone understand that?"

"Cullen, none of this makes sense," Aveline says. "The council thinks the Order is trying to influence Lady Amell's seat. I've got noble lackies and guild representatives knocking down my door. The Magistrates are muttering about jurisdiction. Even the Viscount's Office is making noise, and usually they're all too happy to ignore whatever new controversy your Commander has stirred up. What was Meredith thinking?"

"The fact is—" Cullen stops. "I tell you this in confidence. I am within my rights to tell you nothing at all."

Aveline puts her hands on her desk, leaning forward. "Spill. Please."

"The fact is an incendiary manifesto was found, authored by Serah Hawke. It urges civil disobedience, not only against the Order, but against the Chantry and the Grand Cleric herself. Grand Cleric Elthina has been made aware of it, but refuses to take precautionary measures. The Knight-Commander is anxious about security and felt she had no choice but arrest. She will not be swayed."

"Manifesto?" Aveline says, raising an eyebrow. "Found where, exactly?"

Cullen glances down at his hands. "We raided the clinic in Darktown."

"On what grounds?"

Cullen shifts, smoothing his jacket. "Informant testimony."

Aveline frowns. "What informant?"

"I can't release that information."

"In other words, you arrested Hawke because you found propaganda the Knight-Commander didn't like."

"We arrested Serah Hawke because she was an apostate living illegally outside the Circle. The manifesto forced the Knight-Commander's hand."

Aveline points an armored finger at him. "Hawke worked for you for years. Dangerous, hard work, too. She's bailed you out more times than anyone ought to."

"I am well aware of Serah Hawke's service," Cullen says, tiredly. "She was compensated at the time, as you recall."

"A bit of anti-Chantry propaganda is found and the Knight-Commander is spurred to arrest the heir of House Amell right before the special election, which Hawke was guaranteed to win, that would have secured her safety politically. How convenient for the Order. I want to see this manifesto for myself."

"The Knight-Commander has forbidden dissemination."

"Of course."

"I swear on my honor the manifesto exists and Serah Hawke's signature is on it. I've seen it with my own eyes. I would not have been obligated to arrest her otherwise. You appreciate my position."

Aveline shakes her head as she paces behind her desk. "No, it's all too convenient. Ordering Hawke's arrest was a bone-headed move, no matter what that manifesto said. It couldn't possibly be as incendiary as all that. Hawke's no fool." She abruptly stops and turns to him. "I question your Commander's fitness more by the day. This is irresponsible and stupid."

"The Knight-Commander does not act on a whim," Cullen says. "She has her reasons. The fact that you are not privy to all the information at hand and do not agree with her reasoning does not make her unfit. She does not answer to you, Guard-Captain. She answers to a higher power."

Aveline's eyes narrow. "Why are you so touchy all of a sudden?"

"You insulted my Commander, who has done nothing wrong. She is within her jurisdiction. She is not without her faults, but incompetence is not one of them."

Aveline's eyes narrow further. "You said an informant started all this. I'd like to know who. Hawke has enemies."

"Guard-Captain," Cullen says, holding his hands up. "I am not at liberty to discuss those details with you. I only wanted to impress upon you the Knight-Commander has reasons for her orders; they are not meted out on a whim."

"Cullen, I need you to level with me," Aveline says.

He quails under the iron in her gaze. "I've already said too much. You may send an information request to the Knight-Commander, but I doubt—"

"Oh, no. We've gone around and around in this office too many times. I know what that look means. You're hiding something."

Cullen draws a breath and looks her in the eye. "With all due respect, whether the arrest is justified in the Guard's eyes is immaterial. The Order alone has jurisdiction over mages and Serah Hawke is a mage. That is the only rationale that matters."

Aveline pushes away from her desk. "This is ridiculous," she says, turning her back.

Cullen takes a quick step forward. "Aveline, please understand, no one is more upset about how this was handled than I am, I assure you-"

She waves him off, her back straight and unsympathetic. "That's enough. We're done here."

"Aveline."

"You know your way out, Knight-Captain."

Cullen goes, with a weariness understood by any Guardsman who has faced the Guard-Captain's displeasure. His step lightens when his feet hit the streets of Hightown and he is in the sun and sea air, but as he approaches the stoop of Amell Manor his steps become weighted once more. The front door is open wide, manned by a lone corporal picking her teeth, and she straightens and salutes on his approach.

The manor is still being searched, but the squadron tasked with the deed have grown careless. Cullen frowns as he walks among them, observing the disarray of their efforts—gashes in furniture, a broken vase, sundry smudges and stains and tears. Upstairs, Hawke's office floor is covered with papers. Some books have been tossed into untidy stacks while others lie open-faced on the floor. The papers scattered near the door are marred with bootprints.

Cullen's displeasure intensifies as his eyes drift to the two Knights busily pulling out desk drawers and emptying the contents into piles. A growl of reprimand rises in his throat, but before he can release it, a voice echoes down the hallway.

"Knight-Captain, we found something."

Cullen's gut tightens as he follows the voice to Hawke's bedchamber. He averts his eyes from the wide-open wardrobe and the four—poster bed's parted curtains, but is unable to ignore the red chemise crumpled on the floor, its delicate straps snarled in a knot. He resists the urge to smooth the wrinkles, hang it in the wardrobe, and shut the doors tight, shielding it from the prying eyes of strangers.

"Here, ser," the Corporal says, handing him the _something_, and Cullen's shoulders relax. It is only a stave—a humble weapon, hewn of tough, gnarled wood with no adornment. It is designed to pass as a climbing staff, but to the trained eye its true purpose is unmistakable. Cullen tests its weight, turning it to the left, then the right. He has only seen this staff once before, but it was used to save his life, and he would recognize it anywhere. It appears undamaged; a miracle, considering the treatment of Hawke's other belongings.

"I'll take it," Cullen says. "The Knight-Commander will want to see it."

An objection forms on the Corporal's lips, but it is quickly stilled by Cullen's look. "Ah, yes ser," she says. "As you wish."

"Did you find anything else?"

"Quite a few books in suspicious languages. Not sure what they're about, you can never be sure with that foreign rubbish. Paxley is going to send them for review."

Cullen gives the books a cursory glance. The topmost is Orlesian, and though his translation skills are mediocre at best, he recognizes it is a historical volume. The books beneath are additional volumes in the set. Cullen draws a long breath. "Nothing else? No drafts or correspondence?"

"There's a bunch of business correspondence, mostly related to mining and such, and some personal letters. We crated the lot for review. We didn't find anything that looks like that manifesto the Knight-Commander was so upset about. Not yet, anyway. We haven't searched the passage yet."

"What passage?" Cullen asks.

There is a passage that travels winding and narrow from the rear of the estate to a corner of Darktown, mere yards from Anders' clinic. As he surveys it, Cullen realizes that if he had allowed Marian to change clothes, she likely would have used this passage to escape. The ensuing mix of emotions gives him pause. The idea of Marian vanishing into this passage, never to be seen again, does not give him the sense of relief it should. It jumbles his stomach into a different sort of knot, a kind he is not sure how to untangle.

Cullen lights a torch and traverses the passage slowly, searching the walls and floor and nooks and crannies, until he finds a number of papers wedged into a crack in the wall. The paper tears when removed, but he is able to smooth it and read, and his brows draw together as he does so. The structure is the same as the manifesto's, but the similarities end there. It is neither persuasive nor lyrical, but angry, rambling, and disorganized. Instead of coordinated civil disobedience, it calls for targeted acts of open violence against agents of the Order and the Chantry. The author demands "justice," though increasingly, "justice" is replaced with "vengeance." At the end, a scrawled tangle of post script expresses a desire to see the Grand Cleric tried and executed as a war criminal.

Cullen smells bile and urine, and sees the wet gray, blue, and pink shimmer of fresh viscera on the passage walls. The space grows oppressively small and the air becomes rank and suffocating with damp and body odor.

Cullen reflexively crumples the papers in his fist, shuts his eyes, and mediates on the Chant until the passage opens again and the viscera has melted away. He shakes his head, warding off the last vestiges of the foul smell, and tucks the papers into the breast pocket inside his jacket. He searches the remainder of the cramped passage twice over, anxious the passage will close in on him again. It does not, and he finds nothing else. When he ascends, the Corporal is waiting.

"Anything we should check out, ser?"

"No," he says, tersely. "Continue searching the remainder of the estate. I want everything that isn't confiscated put back in its proper place." As he crosses the hall to the main staircase, he pauses at the open door to Hawke's office. "You two," he says, and both templars look up sharply and salute. "You put every bit of that back where you found it. This office will be spotless when your shift ends."

Both templars' heads swivel to the mess of papers on the floor.

"Yes, ser," one says, her voice muffled. The other sighs.

On the ferry to the Gallows, Cullen studies Hawke's staff. He runs his thumb down the rough wood and finds a series of tally marks carved into the side. There are a lot of marks, and the ones at the end are newer. The staff seems to warm against his palm as he holds it. He places it on the bench beside him, and does not take it up again until the ferry reaches its destination.


	11. Chapter 11

The Circle Library, with its towering shelves and dusty corners and musty smells, offers Hawke a welcome reprieve that her small bed does not. Hidden among the stacks are her father's fingerprints and the infinite possibility of knowledge, nooks and crannies to escape into, secrets to uncover. Her bed offers nothing but restless nights, thin sheets, and the cold sweat of nightmares.

Her first assignment as assistant librarian is to review confiscated books for dangerous content, and she reflects fondly on the nature of institutional bureaucracy when she finds titles from her own collection mixed into the stack. Paging through the historical volumes the templars have plucked from her shelves relaxes her. The dry text transports her back to quiet nights in Lothering, curled up by the fire, reading in companionable silence alongside her father and her sister Bethany. She is so absorbed she does not notice Cullen until he says her name.

He could be mistaken for clergy in the Order's officer's uniform, with it's heavy brocade skirts and tapered jacket, but there are a few extra flourishes—ceremonial blade, rank braid, formal gloves. "I have your staff," he says. He is not smiling.

"What will it cost me?"

"A requisition form, the same as it would for anyone else."

"I'm not going to submit a requisition form for my own property." Hawke drops her eyes back to the book and licks a finger. She turns the page slowly, deliberately. "Is that all?"

"No, that's not all. I want to talk to you. Privately."

She picks up the nearest stack of books and carries it to the history section. She shelves the books while Cullen waits. He stands close, and without his heavy armor, they are nearly the same size. She catches a hint of lyrium. It smells different for everyone. On her, it's spicy. On him, floral.

When she turns, giving him her full attention, he says, "You lied to me."

"You're going to have to be more specific." His eyes darken, and she blinks, and says, "That was a joke, Cullen."

"We found the passage leading from the estate to Darktown."

"I should hope so. It wasn't concealed."

He withdraws a crumpled paper from his jacket and holds it up. "Explain." Hawke reaches and he draws it back. "No, look from there." She frowns at him, but when her eyes scan the document, her brow smooths.

"You took advantage of my trust," he says, his voice hard and even.

Hawke is scanning the page more rapidly now, her face paling.

"I am increasingly hard-pressed to recall a time when you haven't. First, it was that radical manifesto with your name on it. Now I find malicious propaganda, threats of violence against the Grand Cleric, hidden in the environs of your estate. Explain."

Hawke's eyes snap to his. "You raided the clinic. You said you wouldn't." She gropes for support and her fingers hook the edge of the nearest shelf. "Where is he?" Her voice is steady, but her knuckles whiten.

Cullen's expression grows darker. "I asked you for an explanation."

"You promised you wouldn't go after him. You promised."

"A promise predicated on manipulation and lies."

She licks her lips. "Tell me where he is. Please."

Perhaps it is the please; Cullen yields. "Anders escaped, as he always does. Regrettable he did not help you do the same. Why didn't he use that passage to warn you?"

"I'm sure he did his best," Hawke says, her grip on the shelf relaxing. "I doubt he had time."

"He had time."

Hawke drops her hand to her side, where it curls into a fist. "_You_ arrested _me_, Cullen, in case you've forgotten. Let's assume he did have time to warn me and chose not to. Did it occur to you Anders would assume I was under your protection?"

Cullen hesitates, the anger in his eyes momentarily clearing. "No," he says, shaking his head. "He had no reason to think that." She looks away, unable to meet his eyes, and anger clouds his expression once more. "Enough stalling. Explain this." He shakes the paper in her face. "Who wrote this? I know you didn't, I checked the handwriting."

"I'm not telling you anything. You promised me you wouldn't go after Anders, and you—"

Cullen grabs her arms. She is startled and grabs his arms in turn, locking her elbows so he cannot close the distance. He tenses under her palms when she clamps down.

"Enough about _Anders_!" Cullen says. "I vouched for your character, again and again. I trusted you. I believed you. I put my reputation on the line and you've made me look like an idiot in front of my Commander. Now everyone thinks I'm some besotted _fool—_" His grip tightens. "And I am. You were using me."

Hawke tightens her own grip in turn. "What do you want me to say, Cullen?" she asks sharply.

"I want the truth. How could you look me in the eye day after day, all the while harboring _this_ behind my back? I was willing to believe there was some rational explanation for the manifesto being in your handwriting, for your signature, but now I find _this_. It's depraved, it sounds like _Uldred_ and his foul blood mages! Did you write that manifesto after all? Are these your ideas? Do you actually endorse this filth? Tell me!"

"I can't answer that without implicating myself or someone else. Try to understand the position I'm-"

"That mage abandoned you without a thought and you're still protecting him! He doesn't deserve your protection!" His grip tightens painfully. "He doesn't deserve any of it!"

"Cullen," she says.

"I cared about you, I trusted you, I helped you, and after everything we—Now _this_, everywhere I turn, lies, always lies! You will answer me! You owe me answers!" He shakes her.

Hawke throws her entire weight forward, shoving him back into the shelves, and several books are dislodged on impact and crash to the floor. "You sodding _templar_, no mage owes you _anything! _You think we're property to keep in a cage and use as you see fit! You think you have divine right over us and you don't even recognize how sodding _disgusting_ that is!_"_

He releases her instantly, as though she is searing to the touch, and she backs away, pressing against the shelves opposite, her hands trembling. She clutches her robes in her fists to still them. The look on his face is almost indescribable, a mixture of anger and hurt and indignation and surprise so thoroughly blended it is a relief when he abruptly turns away and she is no longer faced with the task of deciphering it.

She fists her hands more tightly in her robes as he departs. When she is sure he is gone, she returns to her seat, staring dully at the open book. She chews her lip, stopping only when she tastes a hint of copper and realizes she has broken the skin.


	12. Chapter 12

Cullen has two types of dreams: dreams about blood mages and dreams about Marian Hawke. He is not sure which is worse. Both feature chains, but Marian's is a pretty gold one fastened to a collar around her neck. She loops the chain around him, pulling him close until he has nowhere to go but her arms. She runs her fingers through his hair, her mouth hovering over his, and the chain dangles between them, bumping his knees. She curls his hand around the clasp at her neck, whispering things he cannot make out.

After Cullen wakes, vestiges of Marian collared and whispering cling to his mind. His erection aches where it is trapped between his thigh and the mattress, demanding attention. He buries his face in the pillow.

He tries not to think of Marian atop him, of being guided between those muscular thighs, of being enveloped in her heat, but invariably, he does. He imagines her body rocking above him, her breath quickening in the dark. He imagines strong hands encircling his neck. He cannot breathe, and his hand tightens on the bed frame as he struggles to resurface. When his head clears, he lies motionless in the sweaty sheets, his cock softening beneath him, and he is hollow.

There was a time when he cringed at his sexual fantasies of her, at the speed and heat of his release, and showered himself with reproach and reprimand to compensate. Now that Marian is in the Circle, he can only imagine her above him in the dark, his neck in the yoke of her hands, and the suffocation that follows. Pleasure eludes him; he feels nothing but emptiness.

Cullen washes and dresses slowly and methodically, smoothing every wrinkle, tightening every buckle. He does not dare leave the estate propaganda in his room. He keeps it close, folded in his breast pocket.

He is among the earliest to rise and the tranquil is still cleaning his office when he arrives. A different tranquil this time, he thinks, but he has always had difficulty telling them apart. She greets him in a flat timbre and he nods acknowledgment without making eye contact.

In time, bustle and noise fill the hall, but the tranquil lingers. The first bell clangs loudly. Cullen glances at the open door and says, "Finish up and close the door on your way out, please." He lowers his head again. The tranquil shuffles across the room, the latch clicks, and it is silent.

After several minutes, he looks up. The tranquil is standing before his desk, a dust rag loose in her hand.

"Are you finished?" he asks.

"Shall I assist you?"

Cullen waves a hand dismissively. "Perform whatever tasks you normally would and you may go." She moves along the shelves, behind his desk, and she drops to her knees by his chair. He frowns down at her. "What are you doing?"

"Forgive me, ser, I cannot reach," she says, gesturing under the desk.

Cullen scoots his chair back. "Please be quick about it," he says, with forced civility.

"Yes, ser," she says, and moves between his legs.

Cullen startles when she places a hand on his knee. "What are you doing?" he asks, more sharply this time.

"I will be quick, ser," she says, running her hand up his thigh to where his skirts are fastened at the hip. His pulse jumps at contact in such an intimate, lonely place. He seizes her wrist. His throat is tight. He swallows reflexively to clear it.

"What is your command, ser?" The words sound far away, as if he is overhearing a conversation in another room. She bears a passing resemblance to Marian; he hadn't noticed until now. Broad shoulders, strong neck, dark hair and eyes, full lips. But Marian would never kneel before a templar, she would never be so servile, her eyes so vacant…

He squeezes her wrist, and bile rises in his throat.

"Get up," he says, hauling her roughly to her feet. Tranquil are incapable of emotion but maintain an instinct for self-preservation and she is quick to step out of his reach when released.

Cullen turns away, shaking his skirts and smoothing his uniform, his face and neck red. "Explain yourself."

"You seemed frustrated and unhappy, ser."

Cullen bristles. "I am now," he says. "Why would you—" He shakes his head, takes a deep breath. Mages are promiscuous by nature. She does not understand her indecency. It is not her fault. "What is your name?"

"Illyana."

Cullen straightens, his face still red. "Illyana, what are your duties?"

"To care for the officers and clean the offices. I am sorry I upset you. I only wished to please you."

Cullen rubs his forehead. "Gather your things. Get out."

"Yes, ser." She collects her supplies, the rags and duster, the small container of water.

"Illyana," he says, with forced calm. "Do not _ever_ touch an officer that way, in a—" He gropes for the word. "—Sexual way. That is a direct order. It's inappropriate. Do you understand?"

"Yes, Knight-Captain," she says, smiling placidly, and departs.

Cullen takes a few breaths. He resumes his work, but the pen gradually falls still against the parchment. He leans back in the chair, rubbing his face, and spies the dust cloth still crumpled on the floor at his feet. It isn't a coarse cleaning rag, as he originally assumed. It's a clean, damp washcloth. It looks soft.

He rises and goes to the showers, avoiding the tranquil scrubbing the tiles. He fills the nearest basin and washes his face once, twice. Cold droplets run down his neck. He glimpses his reflection on the surface of the water. For a moment, it seems there is a gold chain wound tightly around his neck, but the surface tension breaks and the chain is gone.

Cullen quickly dries his face.

His mood persists when he takes his place across from the Knight-Commander for their weekly briefing. His shoulders are tense, his mouth set. She does not look up from her papers. He waits, listening to the scratch of her pen, tapping his finger on the arm of the chair. He allows his gaze to rest on the slender white flower vase at the corner of her desk. He has never seen a flower in it.

"You're upset," she says. "Did you have difficulties at the Keep?"

"The Guard-Captain accuses us of political maneuvering. She questions the timing of the arrest and suggests we are interfering with the council election. Magistrate Volan also accuses us of political interference."

Meredith makes a sound in her throat. "The usual accusations. We only interfere when security demands it. I cannot allow someone with such radical views to have a voice in government. We already encounter far too much interference from the Keep."

Cullen's finger stills on the arm of the chair.

Meredith looks up as she folds the letter. "You disapprove?"

"I did not realize you made such calculations where Mage Hawke was concerned."

"Do you still think house arrest is prudent?" she asks, selecting a half-used stick of wax.

Cullen does not answer.

"I know you considered her a friend, but I assure you, Marian Hawke's arrest was a long time in coming. When the Grand Cleric requested for special consideration for the Amell family, I only agreed because Lady Amell was such a generous patron of the Chantry and Marian Hawke was actively working for us." Meredith holds the wax stick over the candle at her desk until the tip softens and begins to drip. "It was fortunate you brought the information about the clinic to my attention when you did. After the election, she would have been out of our reach. I know that decision was difficult for you. You did well. I could ask for no better."

Cullen watches as she rolls the stick against the parchment, leaving a glossy red blot of wax, and firmly stamps it with the Order's seal. Excess wax oozes around the edges. She lifts the stamp and a pristine Sword of Mercy remains.

Meredith meets his eye with the barest smile. "It gets no easier, I'm afraid," she says. "One interest is always at the expense of another." She briskly stacks the letter with the rest. "Was anything found at the estate?" she asks, her voice resuming its usual clipped cadence.

The propaganda in Cullen's breast pocket smolders, but it cannot compete with the turmoil in his gut. "A staff was secured. Books and letters were confiscated, some in Orlesian, but my cursory examination found nothing unusual." He loosens his collar. "The majority are related to Mage Hawke's mining operations."

Meredith nods, drawing a fresh sheet of parchment. "A cursory review is likely sufficient. You read Orlesian, correct?"

"Some, Knight-Commander."

"Review it at your convenience. Keep me informed."

"Yes, Knight-Commander," Cullen says, and he spends the remainder of the briefing producing numbers on demand, making notes of tasks for delegation, and fighting the roll and pitch inside him.


	13. Chapter 13

Curfews come and go, and Hawke cannot bear the thought of returning to her bed and the nightmares that await. When the senior librarian shoos her from the stacks each night, she prowls the halls, much as she did the streets of Kirkwall, seeking distraction.

It is only a matter of time before she finds it. Most of the night guards doze at their posts, but Recruit Ramos is willfully alert and she straightens when Hawke turns the corner.

"You shouldn't be out here," she says. She hesitates on recognition. "Mage Hawke. You… where is your room? Is something wrong?"

"I know my way," Hawke says, brushing past.

Ramos seizes her arm, forcing her to a halt. "Mage Hawke, I must escort you to your room and lock you in for the night."

It is too similar to the way Cullen grabbed her in the library. Hawke twists and shoves her, breaking the hold.

Ramos backs into the wall and grabs it for balance. Her other hand moves to her hilt as she straightens, drawing herself up to her full height. She glares at Hawke determinedly, chin up. "Mage Hawke, this is your only warning, _do not_ resist escort. You can't be out at this hour, the rules…" Steady clanking announces they are not alone. Two Knights and Corporal Eren are returning from patrol.

"Well, well, the doglord is out past curfew," Eren says, and one of the Knights makes a low woofing sound. "Still breaking the rules, I see."

Hawke bristles, the memory of Eren's smite is still fresh. "I know my way, templar."

"Stay," Eren says, curtly. "Not you, recruit. You're dismissed."

Ramos glances from Eren to Hawke, and steps slightly in front of Hawke. "With all due respect, Corporal, I am the one who found Mage Hawke breaking curfew. Regulations state I must escort her to her dorm and file a report with the Ward Lieutenant."

"We'll take care of her, Fereldan," Eren says, her eyes still on Hawke's face. "Run along now."

"Corporal, I must insist-"

Eren's eyes abruptly snap down to Ramos, and Ramos takes a short step back. "_Recruit_ Ramos," Eren says, loading the word down. "I gave you a direct order. Leave. Now."

Ramos swallows and slides another half-step in front of Hawke. "The Ward Lieutenant will hear about this breach of protocol. I'll file a report."

"Yes, and I'm sure it will end up in the trash bin, just like all the others." Eren waves her away. "Go, before I dock you for insubordination."

Ramos glances over her shoulder at Hawke. Hawke ignores her. Eren's gaze hardens.

One of the Knights sighs. "For the love of… Ramos, don't make life difficult for everyone," she says. "Just obey your sodding superiors."

"Yes, Fereldan" Hawke says, and Ramos jumps and turns at the voice so low and cold at her ear. "Run along, like a good dog. Even an idiot like you should know when to obey."

The confusion that flickers across Ramos' face is fast replaced with anger. She turns smartly and marches down the hall, as Hawke expected she would.

"Watch that tongue, mage," the Knight says, watching her depart. "Ramos may be an idiot, but she's our idiot."

"Don't be so stingy," Hawke says. "You have plenty to go around."

Eren settles a hand on her hilt, a bemused smile on her face. "You know what your problem is, doglord?"

"I didn't finish you off when I had the chance?"

"Your problem is you aren't using that tongue wisely." Eren strokes her hilt with her index finger. "You got away with murder on the outside. Maybe you've convinced yourself it was your connections or cleverness, but we know the real reason why. If you were smart, you'd still be sucking his cock, and keeping your head down in the meantime. But you decided to play the uppity bitch instead. You're begging to be taught a lesson."

Hawke's lips press to a thin line.

"I'll make this easy." Eren slides her foot forward, lifting her armored toe from the floor. "Get on your knees and lick, just the way he likes. Show me how you gained the Knight-Captain's favor. If you do a good job, I'll let you lick something nice next time."

Hawke's eyes narrow.

Eren taps her foot against the floor. "Come now, Lady Hawke. A quick demonstration, and a thank you, and off you go. Couldn't be easier."

"This is your chance to be smart, mage," one of the Knights says.

Hawke takes two steps and bends forward. A glob of spit falls and lands with a splat on the side of Eren's boot.

"You're welcome," Hawke says, straightening.

One of the Knights tsks, shaking her head. Eren laughs. "I think you need to bleed." She cracks her knuckles and Hawke's hands curl into fists. "You've earned it."

"Keep your head, mage," the other Knight says. "You bring the fire, you get the brand. You swing or kick, we break it. You bite, the teeth go."

Even Hawke is unwilling to call this bluff. "I wouldn't want to ruin your fun by evening the odds. Shall I stand here?" she asks coldly, planting her feet. "Does this angle work for you?" She lifts her chin.

The Corporal smiles. "That's perfect," she says, and she punches Hawke in the face.

The beating lasts. Hawke has been beaten, but never like this. The templars are thorough and she is resilient, but eventually, she holds up a shaking hand in surrender.

Eren's fist stills.

Hawke crawls forward on trembling hands until she is nose-to-toe with Eren's boot. She lifts her face and a drop of blood spots the toe. She licks and tastes grit and sludge and her own copper.

Eren bumps Hawke's mouth with her toe. "Like you love it, mage," she says, wiping her forehead with the back of a bloody gauntlet, but the command is strained, subdued.

Hawke shuts her eyes and slowly, laboriously licks the length of Eren's dirty sole. The Knights shift and look away, breathing heavily from exertion.

"That will do," Eren says curtly, pulling her foot away, shaking off the blood. "You know your way back." They leave her crumpled on the floor.

The crawl to the infirmary is a slow one, a humbling one. Hawke would not have made it if she had not encountered two tranquil mopping the floor. They hoist her up by the armpits and carry her the rest of the way. Her feet drag on the tiles, the toes of her boots catching on the gaps between the stones. Drops of blood flower on the newly-wet floors.

The healers scramble from their naps and reading when they see what the tranquil have in tow. The extent of her injuries are such that Odell is summoned. Upon seeing her, the Senior Enchanter says, "Get the Knight-Captain."

"No," Hawke manages. "Don't report it. Just fix me."

Odell turns Hawke's face to the left and right, and Hawke wimpers at her touch. "You didn't listen to me, you thought you were smarter than everyone else, and now you've paid the price."

"You were right," Hawke says. "You were right, everyone was right, I'm sorry."

Odell raises an eyebrow. "Have you had enough being smart? Will you listen?"

Hawke grimaces. "Anything you say, I'll do it, I'll do it."

"I can't regrow the teeth," Odell says, frowning as she assesses the damage.

Hawke laughs shakily and holds out a trembling fist. She opens her hand to reveal two bloody molars, clutched so tightly they have broken the skin of her scarred palm. "Who's the smart one now?" she asks, whistling on the sibilant, and passes out.

When Hawke stirs again she is lying on her side, covered only by a sheet draped loosely over her thighs. Her back is a patchwork of old scars, once rough and mottled from previous bouts of infection, now pink from Odell's healing touch.

The young healers eye these old wounds with concern, but Odell merely gives a cursory examination and draws the sheet up to cover her. Together, the three roll Hawke onto her back.

She groans and blinks in the adjusts her position on the narrow cot and winces, grunting. "You didn't fix it all."

"I wouldn't want them to think you didn't learn anything." Odell nods to the younger healers and they leave, shutting the door behind them.

Hawke feels for her teeth and finds them all. "What do I owe you?"

"My original request stands."

Hawke closes her eyes.

"Is he really so bad, Mage Hawke?" Odell asks.

Hawke blows air through her nose. Finally, she says, "It's complicated."

"I would suggest you start by being nice, but I'm not sure you know how. Perhaps you could settle for politeness, or at the very least, common decency."

Hawke opens her eyes. "Whose side are you on, anyway?"

"Mage Hawke," Odell says, leaning on the cot beside her. "Very few people are on your side these days. If you want to avoid an encore in this infirmary you're going to have to make some changes in your conduct and presentation."

"Yes, mother," Hawke says. As soon as the word leaves her lips, she blinks and turns her face. Pain radiates up her neck, and she winces. "You're a lousy healer," she snaps, blinking rapidly, staring determinedly at the wall.

Odell squeezes her knee through the thin blanket. "We have a saying. You don't need to be flexible enough to bend over," she says. "Only flexible enough to roll with the punches."

Hawke laughs. "I don't bend over for anyone," she says, wiping her eyes with the back of her hand. "Trust me."

"I'm glad to hear that," Odell says, and she sends for a fresh robe.


	14. Chapter 14

Per the Knight-Commander's order, the chapel Mother assesses Knight-Captain Cullen every six months to ensure he is fit for duty. In the past, he has glossed over his maladies, especially the nightmares, but the dreams of Marian, collared and libidinous, disturb him. When the Mother licks the tip of her pen and asks after his health, he says, tentatively, "I have terrible dreams."

"Tell me about them," the Mother says.

He settles for half the truth. "Blood mages come for me, the ones at Kinloch Hold." The Mother makes a sympathetic noise in her throat and nods encouragingly. She has read his file.

"I endure the same tortures… blinding light, constant noise, starvation, watching the others die, being unable to breathe, being brought to the brink of death again and again," he licks his lips. "I am not sure if the asphyxiation was physical or mental, there were no marks after, but…" He falters, loosening his collar. "At any rate, I do not sleep well."

"Naturally," the Mother says, her eyes on her notes as she writes. Her voice is so warm, so sonorous—surely she can protect him, guide him, banish the dark—and the rest flows from him like the ink from her pen.

"I desire intimacy, pure in Andraste's sight, but I have dark imaginings beyond my control. I respond to such thoughts, to fear, hostility, violence, in a way that disturbs me, a sexual way, and I find myself seeking…"

The Mother's pen stills, her eyes steadfast on the page.

"Obviously, those feelings are inappropriate," he says quickly, his face burning. "My experiences have left me in need of correction."

The Mother clears her throat and jots a few final notes. She says, "Very well, then. Your next review will be in six months. Continue to seek counsel with Sister Margery if you have any concerns."

Cullen looks at her. "I beg your pardon?"

"I will see you again in six weeks." She enunciates more loudly, but in a kindly way, as if he is simply hard of hearing. "Continue to share any concerns with Sister Margery from this point forward."

Cullen slowly stands, his face flush. "Yes, of course. Thank you, Mother."

She smiles. "You are welcome," she says. "I'm glad I could help."

Cullen sequesters himself in his office. He stares at the paperwork piled on his desk until his vision blurs. A drop finally falls, marring the perfect rows of neat script, distorting the ink, and he hastily brushes at his lashes and opens his desk drawer, removing the vial of lyrium there. He quaffs it and sensation envelops him: alertness, followed by calm, focus, and steadiness. After dosing, he feels like himself.

He turns his attention to the insurmountable pile of bureaucracy that awaits. He is so intent on climbing the mountain he forgets the time, and when Marian knocks quietly on his open door, the hall of the officer's wing is silent. It is after dinner and he has forgotten to eat. Lyrium suppresses certain appetites.

Marian is wearing deep red robes and her hair hangs in dark waves; she looks more a noble than a Circle mage. He is unaccustomed to seeing her hair down. In the courtyard, it was always wind-swept and carelessly bound, damp with sweat at the temples.

She shuts the door.

"Open that," he says, rising.

"I don't want to fight anymore," she says. "I said horrible things to you and I'm sorry. I want to make things better."

"Yes, you did say horrible things, and no, you cannot make it better. I'm not having this conversation right now."

She passes the desk, her eye catching the empty vial and holding it. For an instant, he sees it—the hunger that never truly leaves, an echo of the craving that prowls about in his own gut. In a blink, it is gone, and Marian reorients and closes the distance.

"If you want to meet, you need to schedule an appointment," he says.

"I really need to talk to you," she says.

"Fine." He gestures brusquely to the couch and moves to open the door.

She intercepts him. "Privately," she says, and he catches a hint of floral perfume.

Cullen's throat is tight. He swallows, shakes his head. "We should keep the door open," he says, moving toward it again.

"I miss you," she says, in a rush, and he stills.

"Considering our recent conversations, I find that hard to believe."

She fidgets, her eyes darting away. "Cullen, please, I..."

His brow smooths. "What's wrong?"

She quickly steps into his arms. In spite of all that has transpired between them and the hateful propaganda smoldering in his breast pocket, his hands find her waist. She rests her cheek against his, and he is greeted with the warmth of breath against his skin, the flutter of lashes against his temple, and the steady, comforting tempo of a heartbeat—his or hers, he cannot be sure.

"I don't want to lose you," she says. "I'm through fighting. I'm here and it's done and I'm tired of being miserable. Please. I miss you so badly. Tell me you've missed me."

His hands slide up her back, reassured by the strength he feels there. "I've missed you," he says.

Her fingers tighten in his clothes. "How much?" she asks, her voice oddly small.

"Far more than I should." He expects her to tease or taunt, knowing her as he does, but instead, she brushes her lips against his jawline, soft and light and chaste, a ghost of a kiss.

He tenses, swallowing, and turns his face aside. "Marian," he says. "We can't. You know we can't.".

"You're the Knight-Captain." Her breath is warm against his neck.

"That is precisely why I must set an example of conduct. Fraternization between mages and templars is unethical."

"But not apostates and templars."

Cullen swallows again. "That was different. You're in the Circle now, I have authority over you."

"You always had authority over me. You saw me use magic. You could have arrested me at any time for any reason, if you wanted."

"No," he says, shaking his head. "Marian, that was a completely different situation. You weren't—a mage, not… not like them, you were different. It was different."

"I was a mage when we held each other," she says softly, in his ear. "I was a mage when we slept together. That hasn't changed."

His lips part to protest, but all that comes is slow exhale.

"Cullen," she says. "I need you."

His pulse jumps when her lips brush his cheek, dangerously close to his mouth, and the stirring in his groin fills him with dread. Abruptly, he blurts, "It was my doing," startling her.

She pulls back, her dark eyes searching, and he straightens his arms, holding her at a distance. "Your arrest. We received a warning about the clinic. I didn't suppress it that time. I took the information directly to the Commander, hoping she would order a raid or even Anders' arrest. I had no idea you were involved, my only thought—I wanted him gone. That was my primary concern."

Marian blinks. "Cullen, how—" She stares at him. "How could you? Anders is the closest thing to a doctor Darktown has. Those miners and refugees depend on him, without his care-"

"I know, I know that." Cullen draws a deep breath and meets her eyes. "I told you, I wanted him gone. I saw an opportunity. I took it."

She steps back, fully out of reach, and his hands drop to his sides. "You—" she says, hoarsely at first, her voice rising in anger. "You _knew_ you didn't have to do that. You knew—you knew could have what you wanted, without hurting Anders, you—"

"Have what I wanted?" he asks, incredulous.

"Maker's ass, why are you telling me this _now_?" she asks, balling her fists. "I apologized, I yielded, I—" Her brow furrows. "We're _here_ now, this is it, this is how things are, we'll never—Maker, Cullen, what do you sodding _want_?"

"Not this, this…" He gestures up and down, from her dark tresses down the length of her red robes. "This. Whatever this is. I want to go back to the way things were," he says. "Maybe you were pretending. Maybe you still are. I wasn't."

Her flinch is barely perceptible, and yet, he looks away. He is prepared for a lot of things, for her to hit him or tongue-lash him until he bleeds. He is ready for her abuse—perhaps too ready, almost welcoming. Instead, she turns and walks away. She is across the room, opening the door, and out in the hall in an instant.

Cullen sags onto the couch and rubs his forehead. His throat is constricted. He swallows, but the sensation lingers.


End file.
